


Finding Mr. Jones

by ConstruingCordiality



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Doctors & Physicians, Drama, F/M, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-13 22:05:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5718763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstruingCordiality/pseuds/ConstruingCordiality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was supposed to be his younger brother - at times, he thought of him as a son even. But sometimes, the supposed bonds of filial love is not enough. When Alfred F. Jones disappears after reaching out for something more from his beloved guardian, Arthur Fitzwilliam Kirkland is left to despair. </p><p>Five years has passed and destiny crosses their paths once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rude Awakenings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, I'm freaking nervous. I always get like this when I start something and I hope to God I finish it. It's just that I can't get this story out of my damn head and I obviously need release. So there. Ahem, ahem. 
> 
> Yes, this is an AU, set in an unspecified city in the US of A because 1) I can't decide yet, don't pressure me! and 2) I've never been out to the States; mostly, I've visited other Asian countries like mine, and it's such a bother to get a VISA, therefore 3) I still need more extensive research on it. Hence Google, Google Maps, Wikipedia and other such articles, amongst other things.
> 
> I've been a fan of Hetalia for a few years now and even a bigger fan of USUK/UKUS, which is funny considering my very basic knowledge of World History (in retrospect, studying World History would've been hella more interesting had Hetalia existed back then). I've always wanted to dip my hand into writing Hetalia fanfiction but I was unable to do so, again due to my limited knowledge in that respect. Hence this AU, where I am at liberty. However, I tried, as much as possible, to make their characterizations (or imagined characterizations) as close to them as possible (kinda a challenge given the fact that this is written in a more serious vein, but whatever). 
> 
> Aaaand of course I'm getting offshore. Haha. Well. Oh well. Here goes, cheerio!

**July 03, 2010, 11:01 P.M.**

 

The slap echoed in the small living room long after it ended. The sting on Arthur’s hand and the boy standing before him, head bowed, fair ashen hair curtaining over his eyes with the beginning bruise on his left cheek acutely reminded him of the punisher and the recipient. His fingers curled into a tight fist. This was the first time he has ever raised his hand to him—his Alfred—and he almost regretted it. Almost. The remaining part of his mind that did not was still wrapping itself on what had just transpired.

Almost self consciously, he pulled the placket of his polo shirt together, noting absently that it was already missing a button from being shoved forcefully open. He sucked on his lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of iron and minty saliva, from being clumsily—forcefully—kissed.

 _Kissed._ The word wrought a fist of ice in his belly. He felt nauseated. He stepped back, bracing himself against the counter. Arthur wanted this to be nothing more than a bad dream, a nightmare.

He looked back at the boy before him almost pleadingly. “Alfred...”

_Tell me it isn’t true. That you’re just inebriated on moonshine, or rum, or whiskey. Tell me it was a mistake._

But when he raised his head those very blue, very vivid eyes looked at him only in defiance, jaw rigid, and soft lush lips set into a very thin line. Arthur shook his head in denial, couldn’t stop shaking it. He closed his eyes, imagining bright sky-coloured eyes looking at him with the purest affection and love, small arms stretched towards him.

_Carry me, Arthur, carry me, carry me, carry meeee._

When he reopened his eyes, those angry defiant blues stared back at him, admixed now with anger and frustration.

No.

“No,” he gasped, clutching further at his shirt. Those eyes softened a fraction, still defiant, still angry, but now with a silent plea.

“I’m not a child anymore, Arthur...”

_No._

“I haven’t been for a long time now.”

The older man shook his head violently and his voice was hoarse. “No!”

“Listen to me, Goddammit! I’m not your son—“

Arthur thumped his fist on his own chest but the pain lancing through it would not go away.

_No._

“—or your brother—“

_That should not have mattered._

“Hell, we aren’t even blood relations! You never adopted me—“

_In my heart, you were still mine._

“Don’t you get it?”

_Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t you dare—_

“I love you.”

He was pulled roughly into his boy’s larger body, so warm, so strong. Just when did he become taller, bigger than Arthur? Just when did this boy change into a man? But changing into a man turned him into somebody else. Because this man was not his boy any longer.

This man was a stranger.

No! Arthur mentally grasped at straws. He has to try, right? He has to bring some sense back to him. Knock it into him of he needed to. Alfred just needed to remember. Yes.

“My dear, dear boy,” he murmured against the white flannel shirt. He could feel him stiffen but he drew a sharp inhale, gathering courage in the familiar scent of mint that he has grown to associate with this younger man. His hands reached around to pull him deeper, ignoring the ripple of muscle in that hardened back, wondering when all the baby fat slipped away. His words choked out the words that never felt truer, even now. “I—I love you, too.”

But this time, it was Alfred who shook his head, and his voice so full of heartache and longing it tore him in half. “Not like I love you. Never like I love you, Arthur.”

When he took his face in his large hands forcing him to look at him, right at him, he finally saw, finally understood, that there was no salvation for his boy now.

“I’m not a boy anymore. I’m a man now. Look at me, Arthur. Please, let me show you how I can be.”

In Arthur’s mind, it overlapped with a younger version of Alfred, pouty and irresistible in his overlarge nightgown.

_Arthur, will you please tell me a story?_

Or when he asked him to buy those McDonald’s Happy meals for its toy collectibles.

_Please, Arthur? Just one? For Superman—pleaaaase?_

Or in those earlier days when he pried those small hands away so he could go to school, or work, or some place he could not possibly bring a child.

_Please, Arthur, don’t go, please don’t go, please, please._

How could he refuse that child?

Alfred’s face was just a breath away from his now.

“Let me prove it to you. Please, Arthur...”

His mouth covered his in an open mouthed kiss, tongue invading deeper, deeper, in moves so amateurish, so obviously researched and yet so eager to please...and Arthur could do nothing but hang on.

How could he refuse this child?

The items on the desk were pushed away to the side as he placed Arthur on it, above it, large inexperienced hands pressing onto his chest, his abdomen. He gasped when his fingers pressed onto his scars—always sensitive areas. But there was no apology, no pause.

How had he not foreseen this?

His mouth created a wet trail, alternatively biting and licking from the pulse on his neck down to his torso. In the haze, Arthur could hear Alfred breathe heavily, hungrily. The cold in the pit of his stomach was rapidly turning to warm coil of lust. He could feel his nipples hardening with each thrust of his tongue into his navel.

His head laid back on the counter, his back arched on the wooden surface. He could only watch the continuous movement of the ceiling fan, could only listen to the traitorous gasps rising from his throat.

How could he have possibly let this happen?

“Watch me, Arthur, look at me.”

_Look, Arthur! I can fly a kite now!_

Large careless hands ripped his pants open, sending a button flying, the fly permanently ruined now.

He pulled down his Union Jack boxers—a gift from Alfred when he was 10—

_I saved and saved so I could buy this for you. It would really suit you, Arthur!_

—freeing his hardened dick.

“Look at me, Arthur.”

How long has Alfred been thinking of doing this?

Alfred pressed his lips rapturously against the base, worshiping his twitching cock with his mouth. His thumb swiped the beginnings of precum, teasing the slit with the lubricated digit. Over and over.

“Alfred!”

_No, please don’t._

“Beg me, Arthur.”

_Please don’t._

Over and over.

_Please...stop._

His tongue traced the kinked vein leading up to the tip.

_Please don't do this._

But in the haze of his internal agony, only a single word passed from his lips:

“Please...”

The feral grin on that face was not that of his child’s. It was the last expression he saw before he swallowed his cock down to the base. Arthur’s head thumped back in shock and guilty pleasure. A keening voice he didn’t recognize rose from his throat. The overwhelming sensation and whirr of confused emotions brought white noise in his brain. But his vision remained dark. The light has gone.

His shaking fingers reached down, clutching familiar beloved tresses. When his hips bucked up, the tip of his cock hit the back of Alfred’s mouth; his moans created a hideous chorus with choking sounds.

You’re currently fucking your ‘light’ by his mouth..

He looked down, and saw tears streaming down (my boy, my beloved boy) Alfred's face but there was still a determined look in his eyes.

_Look at me, Arthur, look at me._

Taking a deep breath, his fallen angel jerked his head forward to take all of him in, pressed his lips tightly at the base, and gave one final suck.

Arthur came with a silent scream.

 

**July 03, 2015, 2:06 A.M.**

  
“Good eve—rather—Good morning, Mr. Kirkland.” The receptionist greeted, correcting himself as he noticed the time on the large ornate wall clock hanging on the marble wall adjacent to him. The man who had unceremoniously strode in through the revolving door merely raised a hand in response but not before glancing at the time; the gold hands of the clock pointing to two o' six in the bloody A.M. seemed to mock him. He wore a brown overcoat buttoned all the way to the top as though its wearer were suffering from the non-existent cold weather, punctuated further by the fact that he wore black kid gloves. He pulled off his brown fedora hat to reveal hair the shade of fresh wheat, and a pair of the thickest, most heavyset eyebrows contrasting jade-coloured eyes. Had it not been for his atrocious brows, his youthful face would have been mistaken for that of a twenty-five year old; but alas, the impression of youth ends there. Everything, from his pressed lips, to the perpetual frown, his stiff posture and old-fashioned outerwear spoke of a world-weary demeanour that should have belonged to someone in his nineties and not one who was actually mid-thirties. The bellboy dozing peaceably by the elevator door woke up with a startle, whether by sheer intuition or by the impending staccato of heeled black shoes against marble, one could never tell. Mumbling both groggy apologies and greetings to no one in particular, he jumped up and pressed the elevator button just as he approached. With a loud ding, the doors slid open and the man strode in without breaking a stride. The bellboy sneaked a hand inside to press the 45th floor before jumping out again and Mr. Kirkland murmured his thanks before settling his green eyes on something far away, unreachable.

Just as the door closed, all the air seemed to deflate from him. Dr. Arthur Kirkland leaned back against the railings, one hand clutching the metal without letting go of the thin briefcase in its purchase while the base of his other hand was pressed tightly to flatten the frown set between two prominent eyebrows. A few controlled breaths hissed from his clenched teeth. To say he was tired was an awful understatement to his current state; his skin was hot beneath the coat but his insides felt cold, his migraine drilled with every pulsation on a place between his right temple and forehead, every bone in his body yearned to creak, all his muscles from neck down to his arms were straining and he was in short simply an absolute godawful wreck.

  
The past week had been stressful, what with the emergency surgeries pushing the scheduled ones until it was all a pile of mess. The upcoming doom of the Independence Day celebration was only to blame, of course. Many of the senior consultants have naturally taken leave to celebrate with their respective families, including Drs. Roma and Germania, two of the three cardiothoracic surgeons practicing in the New World Hospital; which meant that Arthur, being the last and not on leave would be perpetually on deck until the two decide to return.

It also meant that this was the first time in three days that he was able to come home.

He pulled out his cellphone and scanned next schedule with groggy eyes. VATS at 7 fucking A.M. Oh, and followed by CABG at, tentatively, 11 A.M.

Fucking brilliant.

After a not-so long reprieve, the doors dinged open again so he slipped his phone back and mustered all his remaining strength to push away from the railing. The feel of carpet against his leather shoes was certainly a promise that he was near his destination. The too bright lights of the hallway seemed to grate further at his headache but he ignored this just as he ignored every complaint his body made during the past twenty-four hours. He reached the door marked 4501 at the end of the long hallway (again, he marvelled at the irony since this was the only room in the entire floor and there was certainly no 4502 or 4503 so why bother with the extra 2 digits?); he reached for his cardkey in the left breastpocket of his overcoat and swiped it in. As he pushed the door open he was welcomed by the blessed darkness of his own suite and he sighed in relief; he was finally home.

oOo

It was roughly half an hour later that Arthur found himself reclining slowly in his porcelain tub. The deliciously hot lavender scented water lapped gently against his pale skin and he sighed in content. This, he thought as he idly cupped the froth clinging to the sides of the tub with both hands and watched it drift away, is a luxury that used to be one of his most selfish dreams as a child. Indeed he was—putting it mildly—tired as fuck, but at least he had this sanctuary to come home to. Who would have imagined that he would one day become one of the youngest, most accomplished cardiothoracic surgeons in the state, affiliate with one of the leading tertiary hospitals in the country? Who would have thought that he would one day own two different business venues, or garner a more than adequate amount of success in the stock market? Who would have predicted that, one day, he would be living in a privately owned flat—and not just an ordinary flat but a suite room in the much revered Edelstein Tower—complete with customized furnishings and boasting a deck with a splendid view of the city at night? Certainly, if someone told him these things as a child, he would have rudely laughed outright at their faces. His life back then was certainly no bed of roses—far from it. It was a life he cared so little to dwell on unless he was sodding drunk and even that was little and far in between having sworn off hard liquor a few years back. What mattered was that he, Arthur Fitzwilliam Joyce Kirkland, born a bastard son in the filthy outskirts of London, had toiled long and hard until he finally had borne witness to the fruits of his labour, and the impossible dreams were dreams no longer.

As his thoughts wandered, he lathered his body thoroughly and systematically and rinsed himself in an equal fashion. Though bone tired, he was a bit rejuvenated by the bath. For a moment, he thought of brewing himself a cup of tea but decided instead to just sleep the rest of it off. He wrung his body dry with a towel and blow-dried his efficiently cut blonde strands. From a cylindrical container on his bathroom shelf, he placed a dollop of cocoa butter and rubbed it to warmth in his calloused hands before spreading it thoroughly on every surface of his body, taking more care to spread it patiently on his scars, to ensure better absorption. Surveying himself in a full length mirror, he clucked drily. His body of course has always been in its desired form; well-toned and sinewy, though pectoral muscles and abs that had earned in his life on the streets have flattened somewhat from misuse. Scars littered his body. The ones on his back were already faint. The most jarring one however was the jagged line reaching from his right pectoral to his hip, immediately seconded by the stellate one directly below his xiphisternal junction, both of which became raised pink welts in hot weather or whenever he chanced to have a particularly long bath, such as this one.

By the time he was done with his daily rituals—rather, as daily as possible given the time he hardly spent in his home—it was already 3:30 A.M. He slipped naked under the comforters, but not before setting his alarm clock to go off in two hours so he would have ample time to prepare for his next surgery. The cold in his insides and the headache remained a steady hum in spite of the Ibuprofen he had taken earlier. He refused to think of what it meant. He struggled to empty his mind until he fell into a dreamless sleep.

oOo

“ _Réveillez-vous, mon chéri_.”

Arthur didn’t have to open his eyes to know who was talking to him; he knew only one person with a heavy French accent and he happened to be exceedingly proud about his Frenchness. Instead, he grunted and curled further into the ratty sofa, pulling his blanket over his head. “Sod off, bloody frog.”

Dr. Francis Bonnefoy merely rolled his eyes at the near comatose surgeon. He sat back on the wooden coffee table and crossed his legs. “T'is almost 7 o clock.”

“Is the patient on the fucking table already?”

_“Non.”_

Arthur groaned. “Then why are we having this conversation? Would it be a bloody trial to spare me a couple more minutes before I see your face again?”

He the fair haired frog peering pretentiously at his nails before giving his verdict airily. _“Oui.”_

The Englishman sighed and looked at his Rolex watch blearily. 6:58 A.M.

“Fuck”. He muttered whilst pulling himself up. Earlier, he woke up at exactly 5:30 A.M. only to freshen up and drink a quick almost scalding cup of Darjeeling and consume one heavenly cube of Turkish delight. Then he was off again. He arrived at the hospital at 6:04 A.M., nodding at the nurses doing their morning endorsements at the station as he speed-walked past them to the CVOR changing rooms. Once in scrubs, he promptly passed out on the old couch and would have remained dead to the world for a few more minutes had he not been so rudely interrupted.

Looking at other man only increased his disgruntlement. Being the intensive anaesthesiologist to accompany him in all the toxic waste of the past few days, one would have expected the man to be as tired-looking as he felt. This would have been the case for any other doctor except one Francis Bonnefoy who prided himself not only on his exceptional skills in the field but also on his self-professed good looks (which sadly held a grain of truth) and bedroom prowess (no comment). In contrast to Arthur’s rumpled appearance accentuated by the heavy frown, deep eye bags rendered darker by his pale skin, Francis' all red scrub suit was immaculately pressed, his skin perfumed and almost shiny, blue eyes bright, heavy eye bags overshadowed by the almost pink glow on his cheeks, perfectly trimmed beard on his chin. Arthur was solely tempted to slap him for being so ridiculously cheery in the morning but the paper cup of freshly brewed tea placed in his hand appeased him almost instantly. A white paper bag was also placed on the Arthur's covered lap, the warmth and weight of the package promising freshly baked goods. Immediately righting himself on the couch, he peeked inside the container and was not disappointed when a light lemony scent greeted his nose.

Without preamble, he took one _magdalena,_ peeled the cover and took a bite. The rich taste of butter with a hint of lemon filled his mouth. He gobbled it up—manners be damned!—and sipped his Earl Grey. His eyes fluttered shut in ecstasy. Perfectly steeped with a dash of milk and a scoop of honey.

“'Antonio's'?” he said between a second mouthful. Francis' expression was torn between amusement and distaste.

“The one and only.” The frog reached for one inside the bag and delicately bit into his fare. Arthur ignored the silent rebuke on his manners; survival mattered more than manners. Nevertheless, he ended up copying the other man's example on his third serving.

He watched the Frenchman sip his own poison—coffee most likely—gingerly. Antonio’s, being a small Spanish-Italian restaurant, didn’t serve tea at all. Arthur made sure to swallow carefully before talking again. “I was not aware your café opened so early.”

“It does not.”

He paused mid-sip, peering curiously at the other man from behind his cup. “You made this.”

Francis shrugged. “Surprised?”

He nodded. “Rather. Thanks are in order, I suppose.”

“You are most welcome, _mon chéri_. Of course, I simply had to share _mon bonheur_! Your morning is surely not as pleasant as mine, _oui?”_

And naturally, the gloating begins.

“All right, so who was it?” Arthur groused. “Hmm?”

“What do you mean?” he said, curling one wavy lock with an elegant finger.

“Och, don’t be obtuse,” Arthur gestured with his cupcake. “Who did you shag last night, hmm? One of the nurses? A fellow doctor? Or—God help you—one of our interns?”

The French man simply curved his lips and tapped a finger on his lower lip. “It’s a secret~! A gentleman would never kiss and tell.”

At that, he snorted. “If you’re a gentleman, then I’m the Virgin Mary.” He raised his hands in mock surrender and stood up to wash his hands. “So this is probably the same person you were telling me of a week ago. You never really said if that one was a gent or a lady or a fucking dog. Which is it this time?”

“Jealous, _mon cher_ , or just curious?”

Arthur mulled this thought for a second before concluding. “Aye to the latter. My gut tells me I know this new consort of yours.” He dried his hand with a towel and threw it promptly in the recyclables.

Francis opened his mouth for a moment, as though eager to finally tell all, but then he shook his head with a rueful smile which greatly puzzled Arthur. “Well?”

“T'is nothing, do not mind me. Enough! How are you faring?”

Arthur turned back to the sink, busying himself with washing his face. “You know how I am these days with us practically joined at the hip with these back-to-back operations.”

“You know what I mean,” he said with an impatient wave. “Usually, around this time of the year...”

The scratchy texture of tissue was pressed longer than necessary onto his face before it was pulled away and crumpled almost viciously. “No, I do not know what you mean.”

“ _Mon cher_ —”

“Francis,” he interrupted quite sharply, slamming his hand on the tiled sink. “I am grateful for the breakfast but that doesn’t give you license to play bloody shrink with me.”

“I haven’t even begun yet and you are so defensive. I am right, then?”

Arthur sighed. “Yes...rather, I don’t know. It’s there.” The body pains, the malaise, the ice that seemed to clench around his heart, the worsening migraines. “But I reckon it could still be because of our bleeding schedules. That’s the upside of it—I'm too distracted to think.”

“Nightmares?”

“None...well, just once, the other night but cut short by the alarm, thank God. I gather it is because I never reach my REM phase with these schedules. Again, upside.”

The Frenchman sighed deeply behind him. “You will have to face it one of these days, you know. I’ve told you before, _oui,_ that this is no way to cope? You do this all the time—bury and bury and bury—and now you hurt. Don’t give me that look,” he said at the brooding expression on Arthur’s face. “You can always talk to a therapist about these things. Ooh! There is this one I know—“

Arthur laughed drily. “Hogwash. I’ve no need for a therapist—and if I did, I won’t accept any of your leftovers. I can’t be expected to ‘find closure’ from someone who has probably given you a blowjob, at the very least.” He drowned Francis' protest by adding rather ruefully. “And I already have a personal shrink named Bonnefoy. It’s free, but I wouldn’t really expect a bloody frog to ask for a fee now.”

Unsure whether to be touched or annoyed, Bonnefoy opened his mouth for a rebuttal when the CVOR nurse knocked on the door of their call room. “Good morning, doctors. The patient has already been wheeled in. Shall we put him on the table?”

For a while he stared. Then stammered. “Oh you’re, ah...”

“Nurse Williams, Matthew,” he supplied with a patient smile.

“I know.” Of course he knew. He has known Matthew for a few years now, even sponsored parts of his college education. He has wavy ashen hair pulled in a hair tie and serene baby blue eyes. With some remarkable exceptions, the basic profile was just so similar…anyone who known this young man and him would have sworn they were twins or at the very least relatives. He shook his head. He could feel his migraine returning, acid rising behind his sternum. Arthur stamped this down in lieu of professionalism. “I mean, were you not on leave this week, Matthew?”

“I came back earlier,” he said almost apologetically. “One of the nurses caught the flu so I’m covering for them.”

He nodded. “The equipment is ready, I hope?”

“The twin monitors, camera and scope have been readied earlier by your first assist in the operating room.”

“Right.” Before Arthur could turn to ask, Francis replied with his arms crossed. “Yes, yes. I am ready as always.”

Green eyes steeling, he nodded. “Right. Let’s go, shall we.”

Arthur missed the strange look on Francis' face before he sighed and followed him to the operating room.

 

**July 3, 2015, 11:29 P.M.**

 

The barstool beside Arthur was pulled back with a wretched screech. He gave one passing look at the albino beside him before sipping his whiskey.

“Didn’t you tell the awesome me a few years back that you're quitting the hard stuff?” Gilbert Beilschmidt said, pulling his leather gloves off with a few vicious tugs.

Arthur punctuated this question by downing his drink in a single biting drought.

Gilbert peered sideways at him with red perceptive eyes and raised a hand at the bartender. “Toris, how many has this _dummkopf_ had?”

Toris sent a sympathetic look towards Arthur and sighed. “Six.”

Gilbert grimaced. It was no secret that Arthur was a lightweight. Two glasses of his favourite Evan Williams rendered the poor man tipsy. Five was usually enough to render him comatose. It was a miracle he was still awake and coherent after six. “Give him no more. And give me my usual.”

“Oi! You can’t order me around, git. Toris, two fingers.”

“I own this fucking bar and I can do as I like, _arschloch._ Toris! _Wo ist mein bier_?”

“Here, here.” A tall glass of _keppelbier_ frothing to the brim was pushed towards Gilbert while a warm cup of earl grey was pushed towards the British man. Arthur only grumbled but didn’t complain much as his fingers curled around the ceramic cup.

“This is a surprise. You hardly drop by anymore. What—no operation tomorrow, eh, Doc?”

“Shut up. And no—no schedules tomorrow. Even patients have holidays—unless it’s an emergency, of course.”

“Hn. And where’s your French half?”

Gilbert grinned wolfishly as Arthur choked on his tea. “Oh for the love of—I ought to sock you for that. He isn’t my French half!”

“Yeah, yeah. So where is the birdie?”

The other man shrugged. “Probably with the new consort. Rather surprised it lasted as it did.”

“A full month now, ain’t it?”

Arthur commented drily. “Well bring out the wedding bells.”

Gilbert smiled wryly. “One has to wonder if it might just become that.”

“You’ve met her?”

“Never said it was a her.”

“So, it’s a him?”

“Never said it was a him.”

“Well, blow me! So it is a fucking dog after all.”

Gilbert rolled his eyes. “This is rare for the fairy but if the awesome me is correct, then they are going down the serious lane.”

“And he hasn’t told me yet because?” said Arthur, rather stung.

The German simply raised his hands in mock defeat. “Hey, Francis told me once that we’re checkpoints in his ‘quest for _l’amour_ ’” he pronounced this with an awful French imitation. “I’m the first checkpoint, then you, and last is his mother.”

“Brill. Now the frog would get to blame us if it goes down the drain.”

The German didn’t take the bait and abruptly—albeit awkwardly—changed the subject. “So...anything new?” If the other man scoffed in response, Gilbert ignored it completely and took a long drought of golden liquid instead. Wiping the froth from his lips with his thumb, he continued more conversationally. “Since you’re banned from drinking, I might as well listen to your stuffy self.”

“I am not—” the blonde whipped his hand in the air as though to erase the thought. No, he would not be side-tracked. “Francis set you out to this?”

This time, it was Gilbert’s turn to scoff. “That _Französisch fee_ can’t make me do anything that I don’t want to do. But,” he gestured to Toris for another serving and the man promptly took away his empty glass to refill it. “I would lie if I say I care not, _ja?”_

“What do you want me to say?” he groaned, pulling at his hair in frustration. There was no use dwelling in the things of the past. And yet in every idle waking moment—and even in those non-waking ones—he was haunted. And every year it seemed since that fateful day, he was greeted by phantom pains, as though he was suffering from some psychological disorder. Which he probably was, damn it. He slammed a fist onto the table.

“Exactly five years ago now, he—we—” the words died in his throat as he paled considerably. Even now it was hard to say it. Only two other people in Arthur’s life knew what happened back then: Gilbert and Francis. In spite of the flinging insults and arguments, especially on the latter, they were for the better part, his closest friends, having kept his confidence throughout the years.

Gilbert looked at him from his periphery, concerned but did nothing. This man, in spite of everything they have been through, would only fling his pity back onto his awesome face. A bitter smile and an equally bitter laugh emanated from Arthur’s lips as he continued further. “Tomorrow...no, in a few minutes...I would be celebrating the day I found him twenty years ago. It is also the birthday I placed in his records. I believed it would be apt—for him to be found and “born” on the Independence Day of America.”

He sipped warm tea but the ball in his throat refused to be washed. So he finished it in one swoop, and reached automatically for Gilbert’s beer. The man didn’t stop him; instead, he merely sighed and raised his hand for another glass. Once Gilbert's serving has arrived, they clinked their glasses and drank simultaneously. Tracing the moisture on the cool surface, Arthur continued his monologue. “If someone told me years ago that my little angel would grow up and leave me one day, I would not have believed it. If someone told me that he would someday leave on that very same day—the fourth of July—I would have laughed and rudely told that person to fuck off. I was so...conceited, convinced of my own parenting skills. It didn’t occur to me that he was no longer looking at me with the same eyes until I was devoured. And I could only stand by...and do nothing...and let him. And still he slipped away from my fingers.”

Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut and he allowed his head to thump on the wooden counter.

“You know my stand on this, and I have said this time and again—it’s for the best that he left.”

In Arthur’s mind, he was experiencing it again—waking up to the hot sunlight streaming mercilessly through the windows, sheets tangled on his legs as he lay supine on the bed. The smell of mint and sweat and dried cum lingered in the air. He could still taste him in his mouth—but he was gone, and he was alone.

His eyes fluttered open and he wondered what Gilbert saw when he looked at him. “Yes. Perhaps it is.”

The clock struck twelve. Both men raised their glasses and drank themselves to oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Few clarifications:
> 
> VATS: Video-assisted thoracoscopic surgery.  
> CABG: Coronary Artery Bypass Surgery  
> CVOR: Cardiovascular Operating Room
> 
> Feedback is sublime.


	2. Separation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Onto this chapter. I've enjoyed writing this story so far. It just bleeds into the computer screen. Haha. Thank you very much for the hits/kudos/comment (and that goes to you DeiDeiArtistic. You're a star for leaving he very first comment. LoL). 
> 
> I still haven't decided which part of USA this piece is set on. It's probably half-assed (and me being a bit harsh on myself thinks it is) but I've been going crazy studying those city maps (coz I'm a sucker for research). So I made the setting a bit obscure. It's best to say though, that the setting is urban (duh!). Sigh. Now, I wanna go to America just so I could add more details to this story. Tough luck there! Haha.
> 
> I did read a lot on how the Fourth of July is celebrated Stateside and I was...kinda floored. I mean...week-long celebrations? That's kinda cool. And patriotic actually. In recent years, they keep moving the holiday celebration for events like that, mainly for convenience. Which is kind of sad actually because the celebrations just seem meaningless and arbitrary when they do that. The symbolism of celebrating on the actual day is really important, don't you think?
> 
> Anyways, enough rambling! On to the story! Rawr!

**June 04, 1995, 10:35 P.M.**

 

The sixteen year old ran as though his life depended on it. To make matters worse, it did—and he loved it. He heard the distant shouts of those nincompoops echoing in the dark and the dank. It had been quite a feat to slip away from them once he had acquired the items, what with the never-ending festivities. But the crowds also meant camouflage, and with his face hidden and hopefully nondescript appearance (at least, as nondescript as having a sock over his face) he was able to steal into the lightless alleys. His worn shoes slapped against the wet cement sending muck on the bottom of his jeans. There was a fence at the end of the alley but it didn’t deter him; without missing a beat, he pounced on it like a barrel monkey and crossed to the other side. By the time he had made two more right turns, he could no longer hear anyone following him.

The teen pulled the black stocking that obscured his identity from his head and used it to wipe the sweat from his face; not that it was much use but it was better than nothing. His black tank top clung to his tight but lithe form, sweat sliding from exposed arms and hairless pits. He tried to pat his blonde hair back in vain whilst alternatively kicking and stamping his foot on the wall to keep it from being strained after the long chase. He checked the front pocket of his jeans and examined the spoils under the scrutiny of his pocket flashlight: a couple of IDs, a few coins, a rumpled five hundred dollar bill, a half pack of Marlboro, and finally, a small box containing a hundred grand worth of Ecstasy. He grinned at himself, pleased; the drugs were actually supposed to be sold to one of their rich kid clients but instead got stolen by a small fledgling gang from their turf. Being the “delivery boy” with a reputation for quick reflexes and even faster legs, he was tasked by the adjutant of the group, Wang Yao himself, to steal it back. Now that he had the item, he expected a hefty reward and, if the merciless gleam in the Chinese man’s narrowed eyes were any indication, he should be expecting the “mysterious” disappearance of the five members of the GK gang sometime thereafter. Not that he had a care for those idiotic cunts. He had no use for the drugs and the IDs but as for the remaining loot, he was sure he could put those to better use; he certainly could use fresh rather than re-steeped tea for once. Oh, and perhaps a tin of biscuits would cheer him up.

Arthur Kirkland brought a hand to his upper abdomen with a grimace. The idea of such simple but satisfying fare brought an unpleasant rumble to his stomach. He sighed as he tried to overcome the reflux sensation, and he blamed it on the stress from an hour of running. For a moment, he closed his eyes and listened to the distant noise of celebrations. From the continuous booms and cracks in the air, he knew that flowers of red and yellow and blue bloomed in the starless night, its view partially obscured by the tall buildings above him and the seemingly endless clotheslines hanging.

When his six year old self had first arrived at city after being smuggled out of London with his mother—God bless her soul—he was thoroughly enchanted by the novelty of the city and the country itself, by its traditions…and the Fourth of July celebration was actually the first that he had experienced in the country. Later, he learned that the celebration wasn’t confined to just a day—no, of course not. Americans were too big for that, surely. Preparations were made weeks before the actual day, and on the actual week of the holiday, there were parties everywhere. For a child, surely it was enchanting. But as the years and the poverty wore on Arthur and his mother, it only brought more and more bitterness to his heart. How can he celebrate when there were ends to meet, when his mother was ill and slowly wasting away, when there was no food in their bellies? The United States of America, so revered for its love of freedom and liberation, was no place for the weak-stomached.

“Oh, Land of the Free,” he murmured loathingly. “Such bollocks.”

A rustle from one of the bins alerted him and Arthur was immediately on guard, switchblade in hand, flashlight on the other. Another rustle. Briefly, he wondered how he even discerned it, with the charged booming in the air. Waiving this thought aside, he approached cautiously, prepared to use his weapon if necessary. But then there was a muffled whimper, and he frowned. That, he thought, sounded awfully like a child.

Tentatively, he opened the bin, knife still at hand, and was greeted by the undeniable stench of trash and compost, and the sight of the bluest, most innocent pair of eyes on a very dirty face.

For a long moment, they stared at each other unblinkingly. Thick brows furrowed almost unconsciously, his heart was thumping so loudly he could hear it in his ears. Who was this child? What was he doing here? Was he an illusion? Or, he wondered superstitiously, a ghost? Was he seeing things?

He decided to break the ice then. “Ah. Hullo there, um, brat. What’s your name?”

The child only blinked before saying in a small scratchy (he seemed like he had just woken up) voice. “Four!”

Dumbly, the teen stuttered. “Four? Ah, ahem. Is that a last name or a…first name…or drat—or course, it’s your age isn’t it? Idiot. Ah…sorry.” Realizing that the knife was still gripped tightly in one of his hands, he put it away—not guiltily, no. He wondered why he was so self-conscious of this brat; must be those wide blue eyes. “Um, your name, if you please?”

It was then that he spied a carton tag hanging from his neck by a piece of straw. And a name was written on it in an almost illegible handwriting.

Alfred F. Jones.

“Is this you? Are you Alfred? Where are your parents? Where do you live?”

This time, the child smiled—laughed, really, and the teen’s first instinct was to lunge and cover the small mouth with his grimy hand. “Hush,” he said hastily but his mind raced. It baffled him exceedingly how a child living in such squalid conditions could have the heart to laugh at anything. Could it be possible that he only knew his age but not his name? He realized then that the child was exactly what he was: abandoned. But where did he get the strength to still smile? For the first time in his sixteen years of existence, he felt a ball of warmth settling deep in his chest.

Once he was sure that the child’s echoing laugh remained unheard, he gingerly released the child who only looked up at him with those curious large orbs. With a small grunt, he lifted the child from the bin, righted him on the ground, kneeling in front of the child so they were eye level. This child had no one—perhaps he was just newly abandoned because he didn’t look too famished. How would he survive in this huge city alone?

This child was alone…and so was he, right? Right.

So.

_Don’t be a fool, Arthur. You can’t possibly take care of this waif. You can scarcely make ends meet, even with Mum gone._

Alfred cocked his head at him and started sucking his dirty thumb; instinctively, Arthur reached to pull the thumb away with a firm shake of his head. Disappointed, he sat down on the dirt and made out as if to cry but stopped when the teenager kissed the little thumb playfully before putting it away. Instead of tears, he was rewarded by a beaming smile, baby teeth gleaming in the dim light.

_A brat like that will have needs. Clothing, food, education—Heavens! Where do you expect to get the coin for all that, hmm?_

But the longer the preposterous idea simmered in his head, the more appealing it became. A leap of faith, he thought, was all he needed. Nervously, he stretched his hand to the child and whispered. “Fancy meeting you, Alfred. Do—do you want to come live with me?”

The child looked on at him and he cursed himself for being such a fool. He probably didn’t understand what he meant. Or if he did, what reason did he have for going with a complete stranger? But, for the first time in a very long time, Arthur Kirkland felt something other the basic needs for survival and self-preservation. An almost overwhelming instinct filled him, telling him that he had a mission now; that is, to take care of this child and keep him safe.

But what if Alfred refused him? Arthur, admittedly, was no role model and definitely not a good person. And kids could sense that, yes? Perhaps he was even better off alone rather than be with him—bad example he surely would be after all.

As the teen continued his internal circular arguments, the child named Alfred reached out for his hand, seemingly without hesitation. His heart seemed to jolt, and melt at the same time as the child melted into his arms. As though it was the most natural thing for him in the world, he ran his fingers through soft tresses, wound the other arm around the soft body; he sighed. “My name is Arthur…Arthur Kirkland. And it is such a pleasure to meet you, Alfred F. Jones.” And with the child still in his arms, he stood up and disappeared into the night. As he escaped, Arthur wondered if this is what love felt like, and if it was, he didn’t mind it a wee bit.

 

oOo

 

Elizabeth Boleyn was the head of the small orphanage that took in the eight year old Arthur Kirkland when his mother had died of cervical cancer. Perhaps it was because of the fact that they were both originally from London, but Elizabeth favoured him over all the boys under her care. It was she who taught him personally about books and manners and etiquette, and these were deeply ingrained in him in spite of his wilder side. Often in the past, he asked her why she never married; after all, it was obvious that she was a beautiful woman in her time, and she had aged so gracefully. But her only answer each time was a tight-lipped smile and the matter was dropped. Arthur understood that there simply were some matters that could not be easily spoken of, and the past was best left where it was.

Arthur respected her in spite of the fact that he decided to separate from the orphanage five years ago. At first, Elizabeth thought it was just a phase in the young lad, but as time went on and he refused to return, it became more apparent that this was no temporary arrangement. He got away by forging documents annexing himself to her in guardianship, but in reality, he squatted in a small abandoned building in the city. In a burst of ingenuity, he managed to spread rumours of the place being haunted, so no one dared visit the area. The isolation—no, the freedom of it—was bliss.

Arthur knew that his decision broke her heart, so he visited from time to time, and it was she who convinced by him to continue his studies in the community high school where she was also the principal. Like a person starving for knowledge, he grabbed onto this opportunity. It came to no surprise that he easily became the highest ranking student upon entering, becoming classroom president. He was also asked to join the Student Council Committee, which he respectfully declined.

In the latter years, he had invited Elizabeth to his own flat; he was proud to finally be able to pay for his own living arrangements, small and bare as it was. She never asked how he was able to acquire the money to pay for the bills and he never offered. But what obviously surprised her most was the presence of a child in his home, barely five years old.

“See here,” Elizabeth demanded. “Are you playing house? Who and where is the blasted wench you’ve planted your seed in?”

“Hush, Bess,” he said with an embarrassed flush, rubbing his unruly blonde tresses. “You’ve really a foul mouth on you when you’re not trying.”

It was then that he told her a highly abridged version of finding the child, and deciding to raise him on his own. Immediately, she demanded why he didn’t leave him instead at the orphanage. “Enough of this foolery! You’re barely the right age to raise another soul, young man!”

But just as she said these words, the young Alfred ran to Arthur’s side, clinging vainly at his pants and the argument was temporarily halted.

“You don’t understand what you are doing,” she said much later when Alfred had fallen asleep in their shared room. “The responsibilities of a parent are staggering. I’m afraid you will do more harm than good. I see that you truly care for the child, and I do not want you to make that mistake.”

“Listen…Bess. I’m not even sure of it myself—I’ve no childhood to speak of and I might be doing this all wrong. But Alfred is,” he murmured softly, eyes faraway and so forlorn. “Alfred is my hope.”

She could not force him to change his mind and so it happened, with Arthur promising Elizabeth that he would allow her to supervise his care for Alfred. “Attending the school at the orphanage will be good for him, too. Let him expand his wings a bit to other children.” Arthur agreed.

And so the set-up went: Arthur would wake up early, to drop Alfred at the orphanage, while he would head out to a school two bus rides away. He would then go to his side lines and other—ah, “activities”, before coming back to the orphanage to pick him up. The two spent most of their weekends together, playing at the park, sometimes visiting Elizabeth in her own home, or just lazily reading books. Sometimes, he would catch up on his school work, and on others he would teach Alfred himself. Every night, Arthur would sing the child to sleep, or tell him stories of pirates and fairies and tales of love and valour. At school both of them blossomed, and home life was bliss. It was, Arthur thought, everything he had ever wanted.

But something was wrong. And it was evident every time he came home late, or whenever Alfred saw him tending to his own injuries.

 

oOo

 

“Alfred—why are you still up?”

The six-year old crawled onto his lap and Arthur hissed in pain; he still hasn’t recovered from his sprain on his left thigh after the last job. The boy looked up at him with those clear blue eyes before asking. “Arthur…are you doing bad things?”

“What—what makes you say that, poppet?” he said rather weakly. Alfred buried his face onto his guardian’s neck muttering something. “What’s that?”

“In the TV, the good guys win and stuff while the bad guys are losers and are always bleeding.”

“Good God! Are you saying I’m a loser, Alfred?” Arthur intoned with mock surprise. Seriously though, he was mildly irked by the implications.

“Noooo. But,” the child pulled earnestly at Arthur’s loose shirt. “You’re always hurt.”

Tears welled in those large eyes and Arthur patted the small back affectionately. “Hush now, my darling boy. You know, sometimes…” and he paused choosing his words carefully. “Sometimes, people have to do wrong things for the right reasons. It doesn’t make them bad—remember there is no absolute in this world—but it doesn’t make them good either. They just…are.” He looked down, smiling at the bewildered frown on the cherubic face. “Do you understand me?”

The child nodded vigorously though it was perfectly obvious that he did not gather a single word. Arthur affectionately nuzzled those fat sun-kissed cheeks and didn’t respond when Alfred murmured sleepily. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt anymore, Arthur.”

 

oOo

 

It was after school hours now and Arthur enjoyed a private _tête-à-tête_ with the principal. She had seen him enter the room with an ill-disguised limp and her sour mood remained even as Arthur nervously tried to make small talk.

Unable to help herself any longer, the principal set her cup down with a loud clink, bidding him to look up. “You must stop this folly, Arthur.”

“Now, see here,” he gestured quite rudely with his teaspoon, garnering a raised brow. Arthur dipped it back instead in his own half-finished cup and shrugged. “I’m only trying to make a living.”

“There are other ways,” the austere expression on the oval face and high forehead made the younger man look away.

“You don’t understand. I can’t.”

“You can.”

“There are consequences for this. Would you rather see me dead?”

She raised both brows this time, unfazed. “Better dead than dishonest, I say.”

Arthur glowered and unable to resist any longer, took one freshly baked chocolate chip scone from the plate and bit. The flaky texture and the explosion of sweet cocoa made him close his eyes for a brief second. “Were I a poet I’d sing praises to these lovely scones of yours.”

“Only to the scones?”

“And you as well, of course.” He added affectionately; Boleyn rolled her eyes, exasperated.

They lasted for a few minutes in silence before the older woman pursued softly. “But I am serious, child. You must stop.”

Arthur shook his head. It was impossible. Even with the help of Boleyn, surely there was no means for escape. “Pardon—but how exactly do you expect me to sustain myself thereafter? I’ve my own child to feed.”

“For goodness’ sake, Arthur. Alfred is not your son—”

“I will adopt him formally once I am legally capable—”

“You can always leave him here at the orphanage—”

“No!” Arthur said, visibly aghast by the mere suggestion. “I cannot give him up. I’ve said it before, and I’m not joking. I may be an utter sap but—” the teen took a deep breath. “He truly is my hope. I’ve—I’ve always wanted a family—my mother’s dead of course, and I’m a bastard son. I heard I’ve brothers but God knows where they are.”

Veiled hurt passed over Elizabeth’s expression which Arthur understood. Gently, he reached for her hand and clasped it tightly in both his palms. “I have you as the mother I more than deserve in this awful, wretched life. I’ve grateful, ever so, for all your hospitality and love. As my mum is surely in heaven, you are my surviving mum now on this earth, and I truly love you.”

His cheeks pinkened and Elizabeth wiped the corners of her crinkled eyes with her free hand. “As do I.” She said affectionately once her throat has cleared.

“But Alfred—he,” and Arthur paused, fighting for the words. “He made me realize that there is more to the darkness in this world. He reminded me of innocence and purity and beauty. He is—he is my life now.”

“If what you say is true, all the more reason for you to defect—oh don’t give me that blank expression! I’ve known you for a long time now, Arthur, and I’ve the general idea what you’ve been up and about the past few years!”

“Then you also understand how difficult it would be—they might seriously kill me.”

“Listen to me,” this time, the older woman simply placed a hand over Arthur’s. “The longer you stay, the harder it will be to leave. Do you remember that Bible verse I used to read you as a child? Matthew, chapter 5, verse 30...'And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. For—'"

"'It is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body go into hell.' That doesn't exactly cheer me up, Bess."

But the old woman shook her head. "It's not meant to lift your spirits but to remind you. Arthur...if something happens to you, what do you think will happen to Alfred?"

The idea brought a fist of ice in his heart. Elizabeth continued gently, "What if someone seeks you out for revenge...and decides that young Alfred is the best target?"

"No!" Arthur shouted, horrified. It would kill him. He would rather die. As these realizations finally struck home, the old woman smiled, knowing she had won this battle. "The things you do—you risk not only your life but that of Alfred’s…do you understand now?”

 

**July 4, 2015, 4:05 A.M.**

 

In the dreams, Arthur’s body bowed up even as his thighs were pushed in a nigh impossible angle. Something wet and thick and slimy pushed in his backdoor entrance. Strong hands kept him down, in place, even as he squirmed, to get away or for further contact he was no longer sure. It was getting harder and harder to breathe but his body was strained—yearning. His cock twitched and throbbed with each phantom stroke and—

_–Oh God, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop._

_Arthur, look at me._

He wanted to think he didn’t know who it was but he was no fool. He knew exactly who those hands, that mouth, that youthful voice belonged to. And he hated himself for it.

The Queen’s Instrumental version of God Save the Queen jolted him to wakefulness, and it was not unwelcome. Arthur’s breath wheezed out of his lungs as the sleep paralysis slowly ebbed from his body. He was then acutely aware of his morning wood beneath the comforters, and if it had a separate voice box he was sure it would be begging him for release. With a grimace, he groped for his phone on the nearby nightstand and answered the call.

“How fast can you come up here?”

“Good morning, too, Dr. Zwingli,” he sighed as he checked the time—4:05 A.M. “What’s the referral?”

The other didn’t bother asking how he knew it was a referral; there was only one reason for anyone to call at 4 fucking A.M. “Late thirties, male with no comorbids, penetrating gunshot wound to the left anterior thorax. I’m ongoing surgery for stat-CTT and exploration.”

Arthur reclined for a moment, confused. Bash Zwingli is a good trauma surgeon and he knew what the man was capable of, having seen it first hand back in training, and much later in their respective practices. “All right. So where do I come in?”

“Right. The bullet is _ficken_ snug between the ascending aortic arch and his left pulmonary vein.”

“Gorblimey.” Arthur immediately scrambled off the bed, erection dying effectively as he scrambled for his closet. “How the fuck did that get there? Vitals stable?”

“I managed to stabilize the much of the bleeding so the blood pressure is fine for now.” But it won’t be for long if they were not able to remove the bullet was the unmentioned undertone. “We are keeping the blood BP on the low normal side to prevent rupture. He went into V-Tach earlier but thankfully Bonnefoy was on it and already converted it back to sinus before it could progress further. We’re on our second bag of crystalloids.”

“What about transfusion?”

“Still waiting for a crossmatch.”

“There in fifteen,” he said shortly before cutting the call.

oOo 

 

As promised, he arrived at the hospital’s operating rooms in fifteen minutes. He decked out of his clothes and changed into scrubs in record time, fitting a face mask and cap on his head and pulling booties over his OR shoes. He quickly and effectively scrubbed his arms and finally elbowed some Sterilium onto his palm, spreading the blue disinfectant up his forearms before going in OR-2, hands raised and eye level. The patient lay on the table, covered with green sterile drapes, and on one side was Bash Zwingli, and his first and second assists were on the other. Bash, he knew, briefly spoke during operations, expecting both assists and the nurse-in-charge to pay attention and know what he needed before he asked for it. The only sounds in the room were the anaesthesia machine’s beeping and the suction machine; he noted then that the canister was already holding 1.2 liters of blood.

Francis who had seen him enter made eye contact and the two nodded at each other. Bash hadn’t noticed his arrival yet, thoroughly focused he was.

“How’s our patient’s status, Dr. Bonnefoy?” asked Arthur as he donned his sterile gown and gloves. This made Zwingli look up a fraction and he did not miss the man’s sigh over his mask.

“Good so far. The blood pressure dipped earlier but he is responding well to the fluid resuscitation. And we’ve also just hooked the first unit of RBC.”

“Excellent.”

Once he was ready, he took the position opposite the main surgeon; the first assist then transferred beside Bash.

“I am glad you could make it, Kirkland.”

“Hush—let’s celebrate later when we’re done, shall we? First, let’s get that naughty bullet out.”

To say the procedure was gruelling was a massive understatement. By the time they had managed to remove the bullet safely, and reinforce the wall of the two affected vessels, two hours had already passed. An hour and a half hour more later, they were ready to close it up and Arthur actually helped with that as well, making the job quicker between the two consultants.

“ _C’est fini_ ,” exclaimed Dr. Zwingli once the last staple was left in place. “The patient is still good?”

 _“_ Vitals have stabilized—and there seems to be no signs of congestion. This one is a fighter, see. If it all goes well I may be able to remove the ETT in a while. I would still recommed at the very least a 24 hour stay at intensive care. At least until we are sure there are no other complications.”

 _“Gut._ And I agree. He will require a closer monitoring. Thank you, everyone. Arthur, Francis—let’s call it a night.”

Adrenaline slowly seeped from Arthur’s body as he secured the bandages with micropore surgical tape. “Bugger that. It’s near 8 in the morning.”

“Why, _mon cher_ —do we have anything scheduled for today?” Said Francis absently, eyes still glued to the monitor as he bagged.

“I see—Mr. Wang,” Francis said, when the patient’s body stiffened, racking with cough, “Try to relax—can you hear _moi?”_

“If you call watching the fireworks display at 6 pm from my veranda a schedule, then you’ve got it.” But Bonnefoy ignored him, focusing instead on the task at hand.

Both Arthur and Bash had already stepped away from the table, their gowns and gloves dropped unceremoniously on the floor. Bash clapped his back and excused himself to go to the washroom. Arthur shrugged, intending to stay behind to finish the OR technique and any remaining paper work before leaving. He stretched his body, sighing at the wonderful cracks his joints made while watching the nurses clean up, listening with half an ear as Bonnefoy monitored the patient for signs of consciousness.

The man’s right hand raised weakly before falling back on its restraints. “Mr. Wang Yao—I will be removing the tube now. When I do, try to breathe deeply. If you understand, nod your head.”

Arthur frowned. Wang Yao, Wang Yao—where have I heard of that name before? An impending sensation of doom pounded into his head. He found himself pulling the chart from the shelf behind Francis, flipping the pages urgently. His breathing was strangely audible in his own ears as he read the brief report on the nature of the injuries.

_On July 4, 2015, 3:05AM, the patient allegedly caught the burglar in the second floor of his home. A struggle ensued and the patient sustained a gunshot wound on the left chest wall. Hence, brought to the emergency room and scheduled for stat surgery._

Not much information there, he thought, disappointed. He flipped the pages impatiently again, this time back to the front.

Name: Wang, Yao –  
Age: 39  
Civil Status: Single  
Religion: --  
Address: --

Arthur snorted, ignoring the unpleasant thudding in his chest wall. All the rest of the information was left blank. No relatives either. Who signed the consent for the procedure, then? Well, it was an emergency of course but...if he was shot, who brought him at the hospital? He was getting more and more agitated. The stellate scar on his upper abdomen was throbbing. The age is just right. Who knows anyways—how many Wangs and Yaos and Wang Yaos live out there? Surely it’s a pretty common Chinese name, right? Right.

Bollocks.

Francis deflated the cuff and removed the tube. The patient flexed his arms against the restraints and coughed several times, heaving spit which Francis suctioned gently without batting an eyelash. All the time, he murmured reassurances and the patient gradually relaxed on the table.

Slowly, Arthur approached the table once more, holding his breath as he peered for the first time at the half-conscious man’s face.

And was greeted by the familiar face of Wang Yao.

 

**August 29, 1998, 12:45 A.M.**

 

“It is that _xiǎozi,_ yes? That’s why you leave, yes?” Wang Yao eyes narrowed to slits, large smile perfectly in place. The only hint of his growing agitation was the poor control over his accent, leaving his English heavily broken and much to be desired. On first impressions, it was so easy to underestimate this small man, what with his small frame, graceful figure and beautiful face. But it all ends there; Wang was knowledgeable in both the arts of Wushu and Kung fu, as well as a brilliant tactician. He used his apparent “weaknesses” to take advantage of any situation, and everyone who knew him understood that this was no Chinese dragon but a true embodiment of a snake. It is precisely for this reason that he rose in the ranks so quickly in the Russian mob led by a man with the alias of General Winter.

One had to wonder, though, when he would tire of playing subordinate and start a coup.

Arthur respected the man and was in fact one of his closest allies. It was Yao who had recruited him after recognizing his pickpocketing talents. It was difficult to get under the man's skin, and it was a slow progress. However, it was not long before he was eating Yao's dimsum, watching him play with his younger siblings. Something changed in the man, however. A year ago, he started becoming distant; he became harsher, colder than ever. Violent, even. The jobs Yao sent him to became more dangerous expeditions also, and though the payment was always generous, it also kept him away from home and brought unshed tears in his little Alfred's eyes. That was what made him think that something was wrong. The talk with Elizabeth only pushed him to a decision that was long coming after all. Surely, he was dispensable. But with the rough times, and with Yao's allies dwindling, Arthur knew that this news would not be taken well.

Today, the man sported a red long-sleeved dress shirt and black slacks instead of his much preferred traditional _changsan_ garb. His ebony shoulder length hair framed his austere but youthful face. Most of the other members were hidden from plain sight, with the exception of one. To Yao’s right stood a tall youth—around 15 or 16 years old in Arthur’s estimate—with ash-blond hair and even whiter skin. The blank amethyst orbs on his face, the hooked nose and the perpetual smile on his face never failed to make even someone as hardened as Arthur shivered.

There was just something wrong with that boy.

“Well?” Prompted Yao as he tugged at his tie twice, loosening it and allowing it to fall on the cement.

The eighteen year old refused to answer, standing firmly with legs apart, in attention. Instead, he pressed his lips together and kept his face perfectly blank in spite of the nerves.

“I see.”

In one swift and fluid motion, Yao’s hand swung out. Arthur’s head was flung to one side, an irregular line marring his right cheek where the emerald ring on the Chinese man’s middle finger had connected. Soon, red specks bloomed and slid from the British teen’s pale bruised cheek. Still, he simply went back to attention, refusing to make a sound.

“Tch.” The small man smeared the blood with his thumb before licking it. From the corner of his eyes, the tall youth behind Yao smile murderously at Arthur. He shuddered. “Determination. I see it in your face. But there is a price for leaving the group, yes? Can you pay?”

Arthur knew this of course. During his four year stint with the group, he had witnessed some attempts to sever ties. But it was never easy. A few, he knew, had not even survived. There was no easy way out for him. Even if he decided to skip town, he would always be looking over his shoulder.

“Once,” he began softly, voice surprisingly steady. “Once you treated me like a…friend. I looked up to you, Wang Yao—I still do. You were the one who told me that rearing a child would be good for me. And you were right; it has been. And so I choose. Would you begrudge me this?”

This statement was met with silence and Wang Yao slowly looked at him with that piercing onyx gaze. But Arthur refused to waver. Not when while those beautiful innocent blues are alive at the back of his skull.

"I was wrong," and Arthur returned the gaze in surprise. A pained expression lingered in that smooth porcelain face. "One day, the children we've poured our sweat and blood for will rise to pull an arrow to your heart, to dig a dagger in your back." The last statement made him chuckle bitterly.

Finally, he turned around. “Ivan,” he said, almost bored. “You know what to do with him.”

The boy named Ivan simply nodded, smile never leaving his face. When Yao was gone, Ivan made his move.

And the pain began.

 

 

**July 4, 2015, 8:00 AM**

 

It had taken such a long time for him to forget but now that a phantom of the past has unexpectedly returned, it all came back in a heafy rush. The memories were like a douse of cold water. How could he have forgotten all that? He had endured so much back then—the humiliation, the torture...all at the hands of Ivan Braginsky. By the order of Wang Yao.

Wang Yao who had joined the Russian mob only a few months before Arthur mixed up with them. Wang Yao who had invited him on several occasions to his own home, discussing poetry and philosophy over steaming cups of Oolong. Wang Yao who had introduced him to his younger brothers, and who had encouraged him to take the young Alfred into his care. Oh yes, he had been merciful towards the end of it—he left him with his life, and a scar over his stomach. He had endured it all for Alfred—he would have carried the weight of the world for his young charge. But where was he now? Where was he?

_How could he leave me?_

Of course, he thought bitterly. It all comes back to him. How could it not?

 _Remember,_  Wang Yao had said during those final painful moments. _The_ _re is a saying that goes, 'People live like birds in the woods: When the time comes, each must take flight, alone.' So tell me, my friend._ And those words dripped such venom in his ear.  _Will it be worth all this pain when he finally leaves the nest behind?_

The small man had taken a gun then, hovering over his abdomen, and—

The first knock brought him back from the zone. Arthur gripped the porcelain bowl, his head spinning, those memories clouding his mind, his intestines churning, his stellate scar burning under the scrubs, and the cold—that God-awful cold inside his chest even as his heart hammered over and over...

The knocking continued, persistent.

"Arthur!" The French frog called apprehensively, uncharacteristic concern lacing his voice. "You are in there, I know. Open the door, _mon ami_. Let me help."

"I'm fine," he said after a moment. Taking a few controlling breaths, he pushed himself up and pressed the plunger. The swirl of disappearing vomitus made him nauseous again but he looked away, gritting his teeth. He went over the sink to rinse his mouth, and wash his face, which he noted with a grimace, was paper white, those haunted bags reminiscent of twin black holes. 

"Arthur?"

With a bitter sigh, Arthur pressed another dry towel to his face. "All right, all right, I'm coming, impatient arse."

He flung the door open to a frowning Bonnefoy. Before the man could open his mouth to speak, he raised a hand. "Please. Don't. Just don't ask."

Perhaps it was his pleading tone, or the look on his face that stopped Francis—he's always been a persistent git. But the fair-haired man nodded. "My...next schedule is still at 1 PM, and it's only a repeat C-section. Would you care for some brunch at my cafe? I could brew you some African sunrise—a fresh batch has arrived today."

Taking another shuddering breath, Arthur managed a small tired smile. "Yes. Tea would be lovely."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't guessed it yet, yes...Elizabeth Boleyn is a reference to Queen Elizabeth I. I couldn't resist adding an AU version of her because I imagine England would have been rather close to his queens, and rather partial to this one. 
> 
> I've been a fan of Queen since I was 7 years old...and that was when I first listened to We are The Champions. So of course, I couldn't resist inserting a Queen reference. OMG. If you guys haven't heard the instrumental version of God Save the Queen, you should totally check it out. Go Youtube. C'mon! Go, go, goooo! In most USUK fanfic, England is always associated with the Sex Pistols...probably because of the so-called punk era (and because it has the word 'sex' in it =_=). But really, there are plenty (and I mean plenty) of awesome performers and bands hailing from the United Kingdom that England would surely have fawned over like The Rolling Stones, Queen (of course), David Bowie, The Who, The Beatles (of course), etc. And if they really wanted punk, how about The Clash? But I digress. 
> 
> Kudos are lovely but feedback is sublime. If you have time, feel free to comment. Oh! And if I have typos, just ping me or something so I can easily correct that. I get esotropic from skimming through the text, LoL!


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